


horizons into battlegrounds

by Caisar



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [10]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Armitage Hux Has Feelings, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Oblivious Kylo Ren, Pining, Pre-Slash, rage against the reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26801980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caisar/pseuds/Caisar
Summary: Some nights, when Kylo Ren looks in the mirror, someone else looks back.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626937
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	horizons into battlegrounds

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [no road home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25627939) by [Caisar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caisar/pseuds/Caisar). 



> I've got nothing to say for myself.
> 
> Title from [WOODKID - Horizons Into Battlegrounds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nIhYlw-O3G8), which is such a Kylo Ren song it hurts.

Kylo comes to Hux shouting in his face.

His vision is swimming. He blinks hard to push the spots out of his sight, his right arm throbbing in time with his head—his hand on fire. The noise becomes words—his name, his _true_ name, not of that—

“How kind of you to finally join us,” Hux bites out, his chest heaving. Taking a deep breath against the tightness of his own lungs, Kylo blinks harder until the scene finally comes into focus.

They are sitting among the debris of Kylo’s refresher—shards of mirror and plexi spread across the floor, deep lines across the length of the sonic cubicle, the contents of what used to be the refresher cabinet lying in a pile in the corner. Hells.

“Ren,” Hux repeats, rolling the R—Kylo basks in the sound of it. “Are you quite well enough to stand? You’d better not expect me to haul you to the medbay, too.”

A hot stone dropping in the pit of his stomach, “No,” he grits out. He can’t handle being seen right now—he _can’t_. Hux’s eyes on him are on the verge of _too much_ on their own. “No medbay. No doctors.”

“No—are you out of your mind?” Hux snaps. “Your hand needs medical attention—preferably sooner than later. You’ve wasted enough time sitting there and feeling sorry for yourself as it is.”

Anger simmers deep in his belly. Haughty fucking asshole, thinking he can just come in and— “You do it, then,” he snaps back. As if. Hux would rather die than dirty his hands on Kylo.

“I’m hardly a trained professional, Ren. Nor your babysitter.”

“Do it yourself or _leave_. I’m not going to the kriffing medbay.”

Hux’s nostrils flare, lips thinning into a line. Transparisteel cracks under his feet as he gracefully unfolds from his half-kneel—Kylo can breathe a little easier with distance between them.

Closing his eyes tight, Kylo leans his head back on the cold wall. His hand doesn’t hurt that much as long as he keeps it still. Might be able to numb it with ice—does he have ice in the conservator? Probably not. He’s going to have to call in a droid—and for _that_ he’s going to need his datapad, which he vaguely remembers shattering against a wall—

“Where’s your first aid kit?”

His eyes fly open.

Hux… isn’t leaving. He is standing in the main space instead, scanning the room as if trying to sense the kit through durasteel. Kylo should tell him to go away—should push him out of the door himself. Hux doesn’t belong in the middle of Kylo’s mess.

Swallowing the words, “Somewhere,” he mutters belatedly. Not like he’s ever used his kit. His usual injuries are either too severe or too superficial to bother.

Hux huffs. “Wash your hands— _with care_. I’ll be back.”

Kylo glares at his back until the main doors close behind him.

Part of him wants to root himself to the spot out of spite; but the bastard was right about needing medical attention. Grabbing the side of the cracked sink with his left side, he hauls himself up—hisses at the pain jolting up his arm, rekindling the low pulsing ache in his knuckles. Shit, he’d better not have messed it up for good. The Supreme Leader will have no use for him if he can’t even wield a lightsaber.

He does his best to scrub off the small shards and blood without jarring his hand too much. Some of the cuts start bleeding sluggishly again, encouraged by the flowing water. Dabbing at his knuckles with a clean towel, he steps out of the refresher just as the door hisses open.

Hux walks in with a kit that looks too professional to be standard issue. Kylo doesn’t bother asking how he knows the lock combination—it’s no stranger than the trackers he keeps finding in his belts.

Pausing three steps from Kylo, “I see you can display _some_ common sense when it suits your purposes,” Hux says, looking around. The idea of the medbay is the only reason Kylo doesn’t smother him with the towel. “Where shall we sit?”

Well. Kylo hadn’t thought that far.

Not expecting to ever have company crossing his threshold, he hadn’t furnished his quarters beyond what they came with; the one desk chair he doesn’t really fit into and his bed are the only spots to sit. Shame burns through him at the thought of the General in his _bedroom_ ; but he’s out of options—and anyway, Hux found him sitting on the floor of his tarnished refresher. Seeing his private rooms won’t give Hux ammunition he doesn’t already have.

“Come with me,” Kylo says, floating the chair.

Hux snorts at the display, though he doesn’t comment as they follow the chair into the bedroom. Kylo places it next to the bed with less precision than he would like, pulling the dresser closer as a makeshift table. Hux’s quiet presence behind him sets him on edge. It is unlike Hux to pass up this chance for a snide remark about Kylo’s taste in décor or his cleanliness; what is he plotting?

Sitting on the bed, “Here,” Kylo says, gesturing at the chair with the towel he is still clutching.

If Hux is similarly put off by their surroundings, he doesn’t show it as he strides over wordlessly, placing the kit on the dresser. He is methodical about it—unzipping and spreading the bag, shrugging off and draping his greatcoat unceremoniously over the back of the chair before taking his seat. Out of uniform, his hair free of the unforgiving gel, he looks… small. Vulnerable. Kylo glances down at the jut of Hux’s collarbones visible through his thin sleep shirt, an odd feeling bubbling in his heart.

Sleep shirt. Hux was in bed—or preparing for it.

“How did you know I was injured?” Kylo asks as Hux folds up his sleeves—a safer question than _why did you care to come and stay?_

Hux pauses mid-fold, raising a brow. “You were screaming. In my head.” Bottom drops off Kylo’s stomach. “I gather from your face that was unintentional.”

“Yeah,” Kylo admits quietly. Kriff. He hadn’t projected like that since he was—since he became Kylo Ren. The Supreme Leader won’t like it. Kylo will be called back for more training, for _correction_ —and how long would that take? Months? A year? A whole year on the _Supremacy_ , isolated, away from the _Finalizer_ —

The Supreme Leader can’t know.

“All right,” Hux says, finishing the last crisp fold. “For the record, I suggest screaming in Lieutenant Mitaka’s direction next time. He’s got excellent bedside manners.” Satisfied with his handiwork, he extends a—bare—hand, palm up. “Your hand, please.”

Hux is… not _caring_ —the word is unlikely to be in the General’s vocabulary—but his touch borders on gentle as he examines Kylo’s hand; twisting and turning his wrist, flexing his fingers, checking his range of motion while asking more questions than Kylo’s exhausted brain can handle. By the time he lets off the poking and prodding, Kylo’s hand is pulsing hotter than when he first punched the mirror.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” is the verdict. Relief spreads through Kylo. “Sprained, possibly. Ice, compression and elevation should be enough for now; but I want medical personnel to see to it and confirm first thing tomorrow.”

In Hux’s wildest dreams. A sprain is nothing; it will heal on its own. He doesn’t need to sit through more judgment and disapproval just to be told to rest his hand.

As if he can read his thoughts, Hux gives him a steely glare—a sharp contrast to the unexpected warmth of his hands. He is still holding Kylo’s wrist like Kylo might slip away if he lets go. “You’re lucky I haven’t ordered a psychiatric evaluation; stars know you wouldn’t pass it. Why did you destroy your refresher?”

Shrugging a shoulder, “I looked in the mirror— _he_ looked back,” Kylo mutters. Why in the hells he’s being honest about it, with _Hux_ , is beyond him; it just feels right in a way not much did in a long, long time.

Hux hums, rummaging through the kit one-handed. “Well, the next time you see him, come to my quarters instead. I’ve got a bottle of syrspirit that makes you forget you’ve got a face to begin with.”

Did Hux just—

Mind reeling, Kylo blinks at Hux. Hux is frowning down at the label of the antiseptic bottle like the secrets of the galaxy lies in the tiny script. Kylo could have sworn he misunderstood if not for the distinct redness creeping up Hux’s neck and ears.

His lungs sitting wrong in his chest, “Maybe I will,” Kylo mumbles.

Hux nods slowly, the barest curl of a smile on his lips and reaches for the bandages.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bad Things Happen Bingo, for the prompt: rage against the reflection. (10/25 filled; find the full list [here](https://desynchimminent.tumblr.com/post/181821535129/received-my-card-for-bad-things-happen-bingo-full).)


End file.
